Surrender to the Cyborgs. Grace Goodwin

       Rachel Pierce, Interstellar Brides Program Processing Center

      “You can’t escape us.” A rough male voice whispered in my ear. The room was dark, nearly black, and I could not see his face, but his tone excited me. I should have been afraid, terrified, and yet my body arched off the bed at his words, eager. Wet. Throbbing with need.

      I tugged at the bonds about my wrists, the unbreakable cuffs secured over my head. The fit was snug, but not painful. They ensured that I was well and truly captured, yet unharmed. There was no give in the restraints, but the soft yield of the bed under my back was soothing. So were the calloused hands that ran over my heated skin, that cupped my upturned breasts, the insides of my spread thighs, my bare mound.

      “Our little prisoner.”

      I stilled at the voice. The second voice. There wasn’t just one man in bed with me, but two. Two sets of hands.

      “Ah!” I cried, when little erotic bites elicited a fiery burst of pain at the tips of my nipples. Two mouths.

      I couldn’t see their faces, but I could feel their hands, hear their ragged breathing, feel their heat, smell their dark, spicy scents.

      “I want to touch you,” I replied, licking my dry lips. I tugged once again on the binds, but they were unforgiving. I didn’t need to see them to know they were big, so much bigger than me. Their hands were large, spanning the breadth of my belly, dwarfing my breasts, which were far from small, gripping my knees and holding them apart so that my naked body was open to their every urge, every desire.

      I